


i'll be seeing you

by tomorrowisforeverallours



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:15:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21793621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomorrowisforeverallours/pseuds/tomorrowisforeverallours
Summary: Most of the time he just had a drink, maybe a conversation or two, and reveled in letting the mask slip. Sometimes there was more. But behind those two swinging doors, there was no need to pretend he wanted the pretty Jewish girl or the house with a ton of bedrooms. He felt more like Joe Liebgott than he had since the war ended.Maybe that is why the war comes back to him there.
Relationships: Joseph Liebgott/David Kenyon Webster, Webster/OMC (vaguely)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 52
Collections: DDSherman Holiday Exchange for BoB 2019





	i'll be seeing you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [partypaprika](https://archiveofourown.org/users/partypaprika/gifts).



> Written for the DDSherman Holiday Exchange, for partypaprika! The prompt I went with was, "There's an unexpected reunion a few years after the war (maybe spontaneously running into each other, maybe something planned) that allows characters to reconnect, platonically or romantically." I hope you like it! 
> 
> The White Horse is a historically significant gay bar in SF's Tenderloin district.

Life made sense during the war. 

Joe didn't much like following orders, but it was easy. Easier than trying to sort out his feelings for the Army, or certain fellow paratroopers of his. Easier than coping with the reality of Landsberg. Easier than trying to figure out what he would do when the war inevitably ended and they were shipped back home. 

When they were, he struggled for a little while. News had broken about the camps all over Nazi Germany and the atrocities hidden within; his mother, who had followed the unfolding of the  _ shoah  _ since its beginnings, collected newspaper clippings with a vengeance "to make sure no one forgets." At first she would ask Joe to describe what he'd seen, in a fruitless attempt to bring the words on the page to life. 

It is a request he turned down from the start. Landsberg was not something Joe had the capacity to talk about, not without fracturing his already-tenuous mental state. 

The memories were enough.

Romance was another post-war aspiration that Joe found he couldn't fulfill. During the war, he'd dreamed of sunny outings with pretty Jewish girls, of little dark-haired rascals with mischievous smiles and a brownstone with white shutters. (Those were the dreams he allowed himself to consider, at least. If the children happened to have bright blue eyes, or if the pretty Jewish girl turned into a pretty Catholic boy, Joe didn't acknowledge it.)

But every date he went on fell apart, and Joe didn't care to stop them, not when he couldn't stop thinking about Skip Muck and his "sweet Faye Tanner," or all those women in Eindhoven who had seemed so welcoming but had slept with the Nazis, or the warmth of a man's body besides his in a foxhole. His mother and sisters chided him for squandering the chance to attract a woman with his veteran bachelor status, but eventually they dropped it. And when he moved out of the house into an apartment of his own, they could no longer complain if he came home drunk at two in the morning. 

They certainly wouldn't know if he brought home a friend or two, and none of them were pretty Jewish girls. 

He'd stumbled into the bar on Telegraph Avenue by chance, after a cab shift where he'd had to throw two men out of his cab for fighting and was stiffed by another. At the time, he'd thought nothing of the curious glances from other patrons as he'd taken a seat at the bar. Joe was used to getting looks for all sorts of things: his attitude, the army posture he still hadn't shrugged off, sometimes even the scar on his neck. 

It was only when a man came to sit next to him, shoulders broad and smile broader, and quietly asked if he was a "friend of Dorothy," that Joe realized the nature of The White Horse.

Though he'd turned the man down, the bar became Joe's preferred haunt when he grew tired of his cold and lonely bed. Most of the time he just had a drink, maybe a conversation or two, and reveled in letting the mask slip. Sometimes there was more. But behind those two swinging doors, there was no need to pretend he wanted the pretty Jewish girl or the house with a ton of bedrooms. He felt more like Joe Liebgott than he had since the war ended. 

Maybe that is why the war comes back to him there. 

"Jesus fuck, did every gay in the city decided to hide from the rain in here?" mutters Joe as he pushes open the White Horse doors and nearly smacks a man in the face. For reasons unknown, the bar is busier than normal today, with every red leather seat occupied and a crowd hovering around the fireplace. A low, but friendly murmur of conversation hums through the building. 

Joe smoothes back his damp hair and navigates his way to the bar, where he orders his usual beer. After the day he's had, he's not in the mood for anything except drowning his frustrations in a bottle, so he settles down at the end of the bar and resolves himself to his people watching. 

It is hard to make out individual conversations, but Joe looks. Some of the men he recognizes as regulars. Others have found their way to the White Horse by chance or have been invited by others. The rules are strict: there is no touching, no blatant soliciting or being too flamboyant, but most of them have found ways around that. 

"You're too sensitive," says a blond man nearby, the cut of his jaw and his tailored gray suit reminding Joe of what Buck Compton might be like, if he's overcome his shell-shock. His companion's back is turned to Joe, but his dark hair looks luscious and soft to the touch. "I was just being objective. Market Garden was a failure." 

Oh boy. There goes his night. 

Joe stands up, taking a hefty swig of his beer to distract himself from the urge to break it over the man's head. He's heard a lot of shit from civilians about the Airborne, and even though he hates making it known that he fought in the war, Joey Liebgott doesn't let that sort of talk slide. May as well give his companion a chance to prove himself decent, though, before he beats someone's ass into next week. 

"You can hide behind objectivity all you'd like, Thomas," says the dark-haired man. There is something familiar in his voice, as though Joe might have encountered him a long time ago, but he can't place from where. "I don't want to hear it." 

"Come on, Ken. I know you lost some guys there, but even you can admit that their deaths didn't mean anything in the grand scheme of things."

"The grand  _ scheme  _ of things? You mean in winning the war?" Brunette challenges, his voice pitching higher in anger, and it is the recognition of that tone, the silhouette against the dark wallpaper that strikes the spark of a memory in Joe, one image of a soldier standing watch in the dark that quickly multiplies to a million haunting moments. 

He hadn't — he'd never thought — he'd wanted to  _ forget  _ — 

"Sure, maybe they didn't. But Van Klinken bleeding out in a Dutch field will never not mean something to me." 

It's him.

Joe turns around and leans on the bar, his chest aching with a flood of emotions that boils down to mostly panic, stealing his breath like freezing Bastogne air. 

He can't face him. He can't open the floodgate they'd closed five years ago on a sunny day in Austria when they'd said their half-hearted goodbyes. He can't turn around and look David Webster in the eyes and say anything besides "I missed you," or "Where the fuck have you been," and what sort of response will that get him? 

But can Joe really let him just walk away?

"Geez, Ken, I'm sorry," says the jackass. "You know I didn't mean Easy."

"You meant the entire 101st, don't deny it. Look, Thomas, thanks for inviting me out but I think I'd better be going." There is the sound of a chair scraping against the ground as he stands. 

"You can't mean that," says Thomas, while Joe struggles to decide just what the hell he's supposed to do. "Come on, we can go finish this conversation, er, in the car. I'll drive you home." 

"I'd just as rather walk." 

"In the rain? Don't be ridiculous." 

"It won't be the worst weather I've lived through." Heels click on the hardwood floor, and then pause. "Thomas, get out of my way." 

"I can't just let you go alone," insists the jerk. "Come on, Ken. Let me drive you, make it up to you." 

"No." 

Nobody's ever taken Webster seriously when he says no, and now remains no exception. Joe recognizes that offended noise he used to make when he really didn’t want to be touched, and snaps. 

"Oh, no need to worry about him,  _ Thomas _ ," he drawls, stalking up behind the pair to throw an arm over Webster's shoulder, a touch normalized by years of wartime camaraderie. The bartender hollers at him, but the rules of "No touching" mean nothing to men who have slept shoulder-to-thigh in a damp hole in the ground. "I've got a perfectly good cab. I can give him a ride." 

He can feel the tension in Webster's body as he freezes, muscles thrumming like a BAR machine gun ready to fire, head slowly turning towards him. Joe doesn't return the look — at least, not until Webster whispers his name in a reverent fashion he’s only dreamed about. 

“Joe?”

He grins and pulls away, locking eyes with those beautiful baby blues. "Miss me, Web?" 

Webster gapes at him with that perpetually-open mouth. He looks like he had in Holland, coarse stubble covering his cheeks with a healthy pink flush complimenting it, too-long-for-regulation hair curling into his eyes. They shine with all the emotions Joe finds reflected in his own soul: disbelief, awe, and a smidgen of panic. 

"Who the hell are you?" demands Thomas.

"Liebgott," breathes Webster. "What are you doing here?" 

"Hey, I should be asking you. You're in my neck of the woods, professor," says Joe. He doesn’t bother to stick out a hand for Thomas to shake, instead staring him down with his signature bayonet-sharp glare. "Joe Liebgott, corporal of the 101st Airborne's 2nd Battalion, Easy Company. I lost a lotta good friends in Holland." 

He revels in the way Thomas's expression pinches like he's about to lose his bowels then and there. "O-oh. You're one of Ken's war buddies? Really?" 

"Oh, yeah. Webster and I go  _ way  _ back," Joe quips. "But those are exploits you ain't privy to.

Seriously, Web, what're'ya doin' here? Got your fancy Harvard degree yet? Don't tell me you changed your mind and transferred to Stanford or somethin'."

Webster blinks, mouth still agape, and then seems to shake himself out of whatever stupor he was in. "N-no, I graduated last year. I'm doing research, actually. I'm writing a book now about sharks."

“Sharks? Weird fuckin’ thing to write a book about. You’ve always been full of surprises, Web.” 

Thomas interjects then, one blond eyebrow raised as if anything he says is supposed to matter to Joe. "I've been teaching him to sail," he boasts. "We've been going out on my boat."

“Is that so,” says Joe dryly. “Well, good for you. Web and I went out on a boat in Austria once. Remember that, Web?”

“I certainly do,” says Webster, mouth quirked into a nostalgic half-smile. “You pushed me into the lake.” 

“Yeah, but I pulled you out too.” Neither of them verbalize what Joe had done after he’d pulled Webster out of the lake, when he’d seen how the water glistened on his skin like diamond-dust, but the memory floats back to them both. If Webster let this Thomas kid do the same thing to him, Joe will kill them both. “So you’re writing a book, huh? Good for you. Knew you’d be a writer.” 

Webster’s eyes sparkle and he smiles, tucking a piece of hair behind his ear. “Thanks, Lieb. You didn’t answer my question, though. What have you been doing?” 

Joe rocks back and forth on his heels, sticking his hands in his pockets. “Eh, you know, livin’ it up in Frisco. Makin’ a killing off’a those sailors comin’ home like I said I would. Comin’ out here every once in a while.” 

“Just for a drink?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. How long you out here?”

“Actually,” says Thomas, frowning, “Ken and I were in the middle of a conversation, so perhaps the two of you can catch up another time.” 

The kid’s got an ounce of guts, Joe will give him that -- must’ve been 4F for some reason other than pure cowardice. Still, Joe laughs in his face. “You think you’re still talking after you said that shit about Holland? Buddy, paratroopers don’t forgive easy. You’re lucky we ain’t beating your ass.” 

Thomas scoffs. “Ken isn’t a violent person like that.” 

Joe laughs again, harshly this time. “S’that so.” 

Expressionless, Webster says quietly, "If you think I got through three years of war as a pacifist, Thomas, I'm afraid you're quite mistaken. Do you want to get out of here, Lieb?" 

He's not staking a claim, per se, because there is nothing between them still (right?), but it sure does feel good to have Webster choose him. "Yeah, sure," he agrees easily.

"Are you kidding me, Ken? You're gonna ditch me?" whines Thomas. 

Joe has half a mind to deck him still, but he gets all the satisfaction he needs when Webster cocks his hip and says in that know-it-all tone of his, "Yeah, I think so. Even five years ago he was a better lay than you are."

Oh shit. A low chorus of amused noises ripples through the eavesdropping crowd; Thomas  burns red right up to his ears. "Watch your mouth, kid," the bartender shouts.

Joe whistles long and low. Even knowing that Webster fucked this guy doesn’t reduce the self-satisfied smirk pulling at his lips. "Damn, Web. You really ain't pulling any punches, huh?" 

"Shut up, Lieb. Come on."

A hand pinches his coat and Webster pulls him out of the bar, Joe finding himself helpless to resist. They crowd together under the awning, rainwater splashing Webster's shined-to-regulation shoes (some habits die hard) and Joe's coiffed hair, the clatter of rain on rooftops and Tenderloin traffic drowning out any midnight silence.

"Were you serious about giving me a ride home?" says Webster over the rain. In the near-dark of the night, he looks like an archangel come down to test Joe’s resolve. And he’s never been good at denying himself. 

"Yeah," Joe calls back, swallowing. "Unless you wanted to catch up or something.” 

Webster looks at him then, his eyes pools of mercury in the faint streetlight, and the world melts away until it’s just the two of them, in war and in peace, a universe of memories between them. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, Joe, let’s do that. Where are you parked?”

Oh. Joe throws a thumb over his shoulder. “Way down the street, though. We’re gonna get fuckin soaked.” 

“That’s fine.” Webster grabs his hand and before Joe can react, drags him out into the pouring rain at a sprint.

“Jesus fuck, Web, it’s cold!” Joe yelps, forced into a stumbling run alongside him. Water soaks his pant legs in an instant, clinging to his hair and shirt like it had back in Holland, when it had once rained every day for a week and Joe had wiped his muddy hands on Webster's uniform.

"Come on, Lieb!" he exclaims, laughter more than words as he runs. Rain quickly plasters his hair down to his head, making him look like a wet dog, but he's grinning. "Bet you can't catch me!"

"You're still holding my hand, Web. I don't think I have to."

"Oh. You're right."


End file.
